His Unsuitable Viscountess. Michelle Styles

under the bedcovers, start the day again. On a day that she needed everything to go right, everything was going wrong.

      ‘An expression of politeness is never out of place.’ She took a deep breath and hated how her stomach knotted. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes. ‘And it is never easy to lose someone who is dear to you. No matter how long it has been, it still hurts. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my grandfather and his wisdom.’

      She finished with a placating smile and hoped. The ice in his eyes softened.

      ‘Your expression of sympathy was far from necessary, I assure you. A tragic accident—or so they told me.’ He inclined his head but his mouth bore a bitter twist. ‘I thank you for it. I believe that is the response you require. Will you now depart?’

      Eleanor kept her chin up. She refused to be intimidated and quit the field. ‘If I go, the sword goes. You might discount Moles swords, but Sir Vivian is a keen customer. He wants the sword. Desperately. He wrote to me, begging for it.’

      He balanced the sword in his hand before making an experimental flourish with it. ‘Despite the workmanship of the hilt, it seems barely adequate. This sword would fly out of your hand in a trice—as indeed it did earlier.’

      ‘Your grip is wrong.’

      He raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You will lose your sword in combat if you are not careful, but it is a matter that can be easily solved.’ Eleanor swallowed hard. She’d done it again. Spoken before she thought. Said the wrong thing. But she had started now. He deserved it for being pompous—and his grip was appalling.

      She glanced up at him. There was a gleam of speculation in his eye. It was a small opening, a glimmer of a chance. She needed to capture his interest if she was going to remain in this house until Sir Vivian returned.

      ‘You would lose any sword if your opponent possessed even a modicum of skill,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady as her mind worked feverishly.

      ‘Excuse me?’ His smile became withering. ‘You sent this sword flying through air without any provocation and you are telling me that my grip is wrong?’

      ‘If someone comes at you with a counter-lunge you will struggle.’ She gave a small pointed cough. He hadn’t thrown her out yet. She had to take this one chance to convince him to allow her to stay. And in doing so, if she improved his technique, so much the better. ‘They will be able to send the sword spinning out of your hand if they do a moulinet.’

      ‘A moulinet is slow, and easy to twist out of if you know what you are doing. I doubt anyone could disarm in that fashion,’ he said, as if he were addressing a child rather than the owner of the best sword manufacturer in the country. ‘I must assume you know precious little about swords and the actual art of fencing, despite your position.’

      White-hot anger flashed through Eleanor. Who did he think he was? ‘Is that a challenge? Do you want me to prove my assertion?’

      ‘If you like …’ He shrugged out of his velvet cutaway coat and put it on the back of an armchair. ‘Never let it be said that I am unwilling to accept criticism.’

      Her hands undid her bonnet and tossed it on a table. The black feathers kept falling over the brim, making it impossible to see straight. And taking it off would make it more difficult for him to get rid of her.

      ‘That sword is made to be held in a certain way and you are curling your fingers incorrectly,’ she said, returning to his side.

      ‘Indeed?’ He arched one perfect eyebrow.

      She stood beside him. His scorn was not going to intimidate her. His crisp scent rose around her, holding her, making her aware of him. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Eleanor swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate.

      ‘Show me.’ He held out the blade with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘What is the correct grip, my dear Mrs Blackwell?’

      Eleanor froze. Was he flirting with her? Or mocking her? Men like him didn’t flirt with women like her. She knew her shortcomings. Her stepfather always catalogued them when he’d taken port—too tall, too thin, a strong chin and eyes far too big. No, Lord Whittonstall was being condescending, thinking to humour her and get her out of here.

      ‘I’m not your dear,’ she muttered finally.

      ‘A mere figure of speech.’ He looked at her through a forest of lashes. Men should not have lashes like that—particularly not arrogant aristocrats. ‘I shall remember not to call you that.’

      ‘You need to put your hand like this,’ she said concentrating on the hilt of the sword rather than on his eyes. ‘It is the slightest of adjustments but it makes all the difference.’

      ‘As simple as that?’ He curled his fingers about hers. ‘I want to make certain I am doing this properly. I’d hate to think I’ve been holding my sword incorrectly for all these years.’

      ‘You seek to mock me, sir.’

      ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I wish to learn and further my skill. Help me to understand, Mrs Blackwell, why your swords are held in such esteem.’

      She focused on the sword rather than on how his fingers had accidentally brushed hers. ‘A simple mistake, which is far too common amongst swordsman of a certain type for my liking.’

      ‘A certain type?’

      ‘Ones who failed to listen to their instructor.’

      ‘Do I have it right now?’ he asked. His voice flowed over her like treacle. ‘I fail to see how this particular grip can make the slightest difference. Perhaps it is all in the pressure. Is that what you are attempting to say, Mrs Blackwell? I will inform my cousin when I see him.’

      She let go of the sword so abruptly that it would have fallen to the ground had he not had his hand on the hilt. He placed it on the table next to her bonnet with a smug look on his face. He thought she was trying to flirt with him in order to stay! He wasn’t taking her seriously.

      Eleanor clenched her jaw. Very well. Lord Whittonstall deserved his comeuppance.

      ‘Do you have another sword? Perhaps I could demonstrate, as my word is clearly not enough,’ she said, striding away from him. Her body quivered with indignation. He wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘It is perhaps better that you see how it operates in actual practice. I can make any sword fly out of your hand in a few heartbeats.’

      A muscle jumped in his jaw and she knew she’d hit a raw nerve. ‘If you wish. But you should be aware I am considered to be one of the top swordsmen in the country. The great Henry Angelo considers me to be his equal.’

      ‘Modesty is such an uncommon virtue that it takes my breath away when I behold it. I know the wrong sort of grip when I see it.’

      ‘Allow me to get my weapon of choice. I can’t allow such a challenge to go unanswered.’

      Lord Whittonstall strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Eleanor put a hand to her head.

      What had she done? Gone mad? She’d challenged Lord Whittonstall to a duel with no certainty of winning.

      She picked up the sword intended for Sir Vivian and balanced it in her hand. Holding the blade made her more confident. She should be able to do it. She had to do it—to wipe the arrogant look off his face and find a way to stay here until Sir Vivian appeared.

      ‘Shall we see, Mrs Blackwell, who knows what they are about?’ Lord Whittonstall asked, coming back into the library, carrying one of her competitor’s swords. From the way he held it, she knew that he was far from a novice.

      ‘I look forward to it.’ She tucked an errant strand of black hair behind her ear and tried to quell her nerves. She knew how to fence. Better than most. And she could take advantage of his mistakes.

      ‘May